


all these little things

by twistmyleg



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Sickfic, Team as Family, if you squint there's shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20066980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistmyleg/pseuds/twistmyleg
Summary: Four souls walked into the Shrine of the Cleric. They came out as one.





	all these little things

**Author's Note:**

> For Atlas (@dq11s on tumblr) for a summer gift exchange! Love your art and I hope you enjoy the PATH team!

Upon the floor close to the entrance, it was inexplicably frigid.

But Primrose tsked and chided herself. The person shivering in front of her was worse for wear.

She sighed quietly, tugging the fur wrap H’aanit graciously lended her closer while glancing toward the darkness overhead. No one in their quartet – en route to Stillsnow for a detour – expected to spend their night in a long-sought shrine by bishops and monks alike of the Flame. Mystical though it was, it failed to mask the winds howling all around them, a routine blizzard engulfing the Frostlands. As much as they attempted to mask the snow-dusted cobblestone with the plentitude of blankets they packed, no one expressed immediate relief. If she focused, even Linde huffed constantly at her paws to make do.

It was partially why she had trouble closing her eyes, although not from concern her lashes would congeal from the temperature. No, guilt gnawed at her heart instead. After all, she was to blame they could not reach Stillsnow this evening. Perhaps if she did not suggest they rest amongst the quiet scenery; if only she listened to an already irritated but concerned Therion behind her rather than teased, they would be inside, warmed by a grand fireplace known to welcome visitors trudging from the northern mountains. Even better, there would be relief knowing she would be rested for her dazzling crimson performance.

Yet with each journey taking hazardous turns toward the grim, she retained a sense of duty in propinquity to why she danced: to give others happiness where she lacked her own. It was one of the few things she prided herself in. And if for a moment in the dreary snowbanks she could bring warmth to those insistent to help her, then it would have been worth it. But it was such a narrow viewpoint of the world; just as her ravenous desire to clip down the crow unraveled Yusufa’s strings till irreparable, this idea of normalcy amongst them could have ended with another person clipped. Or perhaps they already fell from grace?

Her breath materialized centimeters from her lips into a thick cloud, breaking on impact of a blanket. Horrifying thoughts, all of them. Enough to intensify her already frequent nightmares. But the continent still turned each day without a second glance.

And her? She danced. 

Her next breath materialized as a slow fog. Now in this critical moment, Primrose noticed everything. How some of the howling streams bounced off the boulders. The snow’s silence, watching it drift where it could land safely. Alfyn’s gentle snores behind Therion, less titanic from the cold. His vest quietly grazed against his pants with the drafts escaping inside. Therion between them breathed slow and deep, exhaling into his scarf for conservation, ends of which provided temporary cover for her legs. She felt H’aanit’s presence behind her, arms pulling her close, breath against her neck providing new warmth. All of their focus remained on staying united. If at least to keep warm then at most to appreciate each other’s company in times of need.

Her eyes shut, body shifting closer against H’aanit contentedly. Really, what more could Primrose ask for than that: the chance to live for one moment in the present rather than her past and future?

A little memory in the grand scheme of their destinies, but enough to ignite a new faith within Primrose: one selfish without exaggeration yet able to receive in turn for giving. Trials and tribulations they have and must face, they would never defeat this foundation. 

And one thing for sure: they would most definitely be her shield.

* * *

His skin under the frozen streaks itched desperately, but Alfyn never wiped away what was there.

He could only imagine what could have been.

It may not have been blood splattering him a few hours prior, but how the droplets scattered and the body crumpled were similar enough. Instead of white, shades of purple and orange - and a yellow flash against earth brown - smothered his vision and yanked away what little air the mountains provided from him. And red irritated every piece of him like a chili pepper, burning and picking until he had been completely devoured of life and soul. Of conviction.

Yet while blood loss could be contained within seconds, warmth was more arduous.

_ Physically and mentally,  _ Alfyn realized staring at the pedestal with a worn lanthorn sculpture of the Flame. Bishop Bartolo in Saintsbridge mentioned how its light reflected the heart of its bearer, though it passed through Alfyn at the time. Now he wondered if it could be used to preserve warmth, feeling another shiver up his spine. His vest was no sufficient cover and his pockets proved no more efficient for his fingers, yet he refused a fur wrap when offered. He would not let anyone else suffer for his sake. 

Beside him he listened carefully for Therion’s breathing, hoping an inhale followed each exhale. His worries increased with his stillness under the swath of blankets covering him in every possible area; normally he was found fidgeting from night terrors or hoping to catch whatever predator stalked the night. Alfyn tilted his head back slowly to observe him better. Though his hair no longer clung to his forehead in fear of freezing, it was still the equivalent of a wet puppy. His figure incessantly quivered, mucus dripping on his treasured scarf used to conserve temperature. Above all, tiredness surrounded him, circles evident under his eyes and brow furrowed in sleep. Under normal circumstances, Alfyn would keep a calmer mindset, for Therion had overcome the harshest injuries of their group despite his appearance, though the evidence lay behind tangled hair.

That moment only consisted of blurs united by a cold sensation. Hands reaching through cold water grasping a slippery one that had just been there, now shaking uncontrolably. Pushing and lifting as a chilling breeze forewarned a storm, stumbling into the nearest shelter available. Debating steps to take under limited supplies, Alfyn using everything at his disposal to prevent frostbite and hypothermia. Ironically he did not pray to Aelfric despite barging in his shrine, and only after the snow stuck out against the dark clouds did Alfyn return to reality, desperate for food and sleep despite doing little of any.

Should the weather cooperate, the blizzard would clear and unveil Stillsnow before them without delay.

And if not…

Alfyn ruminated again to Sainsbridge, of swinging axes and spears clashing against time. Since then he could only question the inevitable: when will he run out of time? It mattered little to himself despite death playing a trick on him in childhood and Ma claimed as its last victim under the same cause. If he was how many seconds late, could he have expected a life he could not save? Its effects would reach how many beyond that, innocent and good-willed, taunting him with death’s grasp? His body rattled horribly, fingers trembling against his thigh. The implications could go back to a golden town seized by monetary greed…

He turned slowly to observe Therion better, wincing at the ache blooming in his hips. The blankets beneath them, although of fine material from Flamesgrace, did little against the melting snow from their warmth, leaving him damp. But Alfyn was grateful still. His mind could not bear the alternative. But his heart still pounded away, knowing Therion could very well die tonight…

_ I’m here now, right?  _

Though his lips were still and ghastly blue, Therion’s words were clear.

_ Don’t think of what ifs. Don’t overthink this. Everything will be just fine. _

Alfyn had not lived in the present for so long, often prevented from constantly caring for patients. But in this moment he is returned to where he belonged. In the shrine they were protected under Aelfric’s veil from the few roaming monsters. Those around him slept peacefully given their circumstances; Primrose tucked under H’aanit’s embrace and Linde as their shield against the winds. Even Therion likely would not be startled easily. And just faintly in the corners of his lips, there was a ghost of a smile from his final words before Alfyn’s remedy and tiredness equally shut him down.

_ We’ll be okay.  _

Three little words, but enough to reassure. 

Alfyn’s eyes finally closed and his arms moved to wrap around Therion, pulling him close. He knew he would receive a chiding come dawn, knowing Therion’s reaction to unwonted touch. But Alfyn saw it more a sign of gratitude than what he normally implied. Maybe it did not fix his issues, but it was a brief moment of respite against the recent chaos. 

And no matter where he would end up, everything would be okay. Whether in his context or not. 

* * *

The cold was always his alarm clock, whether in sweat or adrenaline. 

But today, it was Therion’s grim reaper. 

Even swaddled in blankets, he felt nothing; just vague textures with no warmth against his skin. His senses were dulled enough to drown out the wind outside, nor see much other than that in his peripheral vision. His clothes, likely covered in crystal formations, lay close to the pedestal enveloped in heavenly light. Primrose to his right knew to keep her distance, close but without contact. H’aanit was undisturbed behind her, providing warmth where Primrose would sacrifice. And only to his slight dismay, Alfyn was wrapped around him, head tucked atop his head for stability. 

Idiot. He would catch the same cold before long. 

_ And it would be your fault, bringing the same maelstrom of misery as always.  _

Therion forcefully exhaled in defiance. What a terrible habit. No one could be blamed for the incident. How would they have known the ice was too thin for all of them? Maybe himself, noting how even light monsters scurried away at a moment’s notice. But despite his concerns he knew this was one thing Primrose wanted to share. Primrose, who kept to herself and slept with a dagger under the pillow like him. Yet her dancing could brighten weary souls anywhere.

Who was he to ruin the fun? 

Another exhale, this time in his scarf, yet it only reverberated cold air to his lips. Therion had little memory between then and now, with the cold sweetly tempting him with relief from unbearable buzzing due to being fished out. And he contemplated it, just like six years ago against drowning in a blazing mix of water and blood tainted in betrayal. But like before, he fought desperately to stay awake. Living in the present was not difficult, for thieves must take what they can get at every chance. 

But now, stuck in a variety of phases, he fought for his present. 

He had to reassure himself he was tangible, if only to prevent Alfyn from being trapped in Saintsbridge again. Giving smiles and encouragement to reinstate Primrose’s long-forgotten contentedness. Refusing to succumb to prevent burdening H’aanit with death. Northreach loomed beyond the mountains and behind these thoughts, but he would not arrive there if he could not stay in the present now.

Besides, his companions were  _ here _ , able to provide a sense of trust eroded long ago.

He closed his eyes, too weak to hold them open longer. His body finally gave enough to lean closer to Alfyn, grounding himself with his heartbeat behind layers of blankets. Although Alfyn was frozen similarly - could not bother to use one blanket for himself, despite claiming the Riverlands saw enough winter to withstand - something about their situation made him smile slightly. How long had it been since he let himself willingly be cared for by others? Suppose it was too long.

Therion exhaled again into his scarf, this time feeling a sliver of warmth bounce back. Just a little, but he took it anyway. Before long Therion drifted off, not to wake again until the present called for him.

* * *

Responsibility was a fickle thing. Where did one draw the line between their hands and that of the gods?

H’aanit lay awake unsure of the answer.

The winds had quieted through the night, yet it remained eerie with monsters still in hibernation. Primrose was still under her arms, surprisingly warm against her. Therion and Alfyn huddled closer sometime in the night, and her mind drifted toward mortal responsibility. Where the others were muddled in concern and sickness, H’aanit had taken the gauntlet of responsibility. A shrine for a god was no suitable place for treatment, however, H’aanit was not sure digging burrows in the snow would have helped.

And with the cold racing against his skin in her arms, it dragged her back to immortal responsibility. Steorra, champion of seasons, had long been indifferent to mortals passing her shrine. Yet being able to glimpse into their futures, perhaps she deigned the cold to deliever its strongest attack.

H’aanit immediately glanced at Therion again, form still quivering under the blankets but not as severe now. Laying him as comfortable as they could manage, Alfyn worked on removing his wet clothing, saving the necessities. Although they wished to start a fire, they immediately found two issues: no materials, and creating one in a hallowed shrine could be prosecuted for sacrilege. 

Was it mortal that Primrose carried two large fire soulstones to intertwine in the blankets? Or immortal that materials were restricted?

H’aanit now turned her gaze to Linde stretching near her feet, returning hers with wide eyes. Small specks of sunlight bounced off the cavern walls, revealing deep scratches from the war when she was but a sprout. A brief smile formed knowing the storm passed, but the question remained. For her career as a huntress, it was her responsibility to judge what kept harmony between nature and humanity. Oft times monsters were slain so others could feast to satiate their urges. With her master entrapped in stone, her mind immediately was flooded with thoughts of losing more people to immortals. Was it her responsibility to free him? Or to let the gods do what they must?

What right had she to rebel against divine will?

_ H’aanit.  _

Inhale. The scent of water melting against the rocks. Faint herbs growing in small crevices. Linde’s familiar smell and the alluring perfume Primrose always wore. The cold seeping to the back of her throat. 

_ Thou art the judge.  _

Exhale. Linde’s head tilted slightly, tail dusting snow away. H’aanit smiled again and reached for Linde’s head over Primrose’s legs. Linde mewled slightly, leaning into the touch. Her goddess once faced such an endeavor, challenged by those she loved. But ultimately her teachings remained true: her disciples were her deigned judges, no matter what the other immortals declared. When faced between her master and whatever Redeye was, its slaughter of many was irredeemable. He was the closest figure she had left for family, and she refused to see him fall as her own did. 

And for Therion? A younger brother in her mind’s eye: rebellious but kind when he wanted to be. As were the others, aside from a special one. 

Her decisions may be specks colliding against the god’s spheres of power, but they were her perspective of responsibility. May the gods take the reins when situations were out of her control. But those involving her always became her own. Her decision became justified as she lowered her head to the curve of Primrose’s neck, closing her eyes but hand remaining on Linde’s head to keep her preseence nearby. The gods deigned a test for Therion’s life. And she would defy the failure, no matter what. For it would restore the balance of not only herself, but that of their group and the present moment they would always face.

* * *

Four souls entered the Shrine of the Cleric in four different states. They exited as one.

Although their remaining companions were concerned and perplexed by their retelling, they did not care.

The present was all that mattered. 


End file.
